Facing Your Demons
by Dizzo
Summary: Vague spoilers for season 8 because this takes place in and around the B-place. This is a little tale of hurt/comfort, pure and simple. The brothers learn that sometimes demons that have to be faced aren't always the black-eyed variety.
1. Chapter 1

FACING YOUR DEMONS

This is a little tale of hurt/comfort, pure and simple. The brothers learn that sometimes demons that have to be faced aren't always the black-eyed variety.

Vague spoilers for season 8 because this takes place in and around the B-place, but otherwise has no particular resemblance to canon. Rated T for the odd naughty word.

Disclaimer: don't own Sam or Dean, but I can dream!

xxxxx

Chapter 1

Taking up residence in the Men of Letters Bunker had afforded the brothers the chance to have, at long last, what other families took for granted all the time; stability, comfort and privacy, and best of all, the security of simply having a home to go to.

Both Winchesters quickly embraced the bunker (or the Batcave as it would come to be known) as their own, and all the benefits, both great and small, that came with it. Sam had instantly gravitated toward the library; it's miles of leatherbound tomes promising fuel for his enquiring mind for years to come. Dean's positive glee, on the other hand, at having a well-stocked pantry at his disposal (Sam had suggested he get himself put on the payroll at the grocery store in town, seeing as he was spending so much time there) meant that the simple joy of sitting together with his brother at the grand old dining table in the main gallery to eat home-cooked meals was suddenly Dean's absolutely most favourite way to spend his time.

That's why the first inkling that Sam had on this particular morning that something was wrong was while the brothers were eating their breakfast.

He watched furtively from over his coffee mug as Dean laboured his way unenthusiastically through a bowl of oatmeal; his fourth in as many days.

It wasn't the lack of enthusiasm that concerned Sam, it was the fact that Dean was eating oatmeal at all; or at least doing his best to choke down the watery sludge.

Since he began to 'nest' in the Batcave, Dean's days of leftover pizza for breakfast appeared to be behind him. These days he was far more likely to fill up with a mountain of granary toast dripping with honey or peanut butter followed by a massive bowl stacked high with some seizure-inducingly sugar-laden cereal which he insisted was healthy because he'd balanced a strawberry on top of it.

Oatmeal just didn't even feature in the elder Winchester's universe.

But, now that Sam actually thought about it, he realised he hadn't seen Dean eat much at all in the last few days. Recent mealtimes had suddenly become very Sam-centric with Sam looking over a massive pile of food at Dean sluggishly working his way through a bowl of soup, making unconvincing excuses about sampling too much of his own cooking to be hungry.

Sam ducked his head, taking a sip of his coffee and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he slyly observed the slumped figure opposite him through his unruly bangs.

xxxxx

"Enjoyin' the show?"

Sam was snapped out of his musings by Dean's irritable snort, his dripping spoon hovering midway between the bowl and his pale, unshaven face.

"Sorry bro'," Sam replied abruptly, shaking his head to clear his thoughts as he put his coffee mug down; "it's just that you don't look too great."

Draining his spoon, Dean grimaced as he swallowed. "Thanks," he huffed; "you're no oil paintin' yourself."

"No," Sam corrected himself with a wry smile; "I mean, you don't look all that well, are you okay?"

"And," he added without waiting for Dean to answer; "since when have you started eating oatmeal?"

Dean rolled his eyes and dropped his spoon back in the bowl; "I'm fine," he snorted unconvincingly; "quit your frettin', I just wanted some oatmeal for a change."

"No you didn't," Sam almost laughed out loud in response; "you hate oatmeal; you're hating every mouthful of it right now."

A loaded silence fell across the table as the Winchesters glared at each other.

Did Dean look thinner? Sam inwardly considered whether Dean's face looked thinner or whether it was just a trick of the light, it was hard to tell under the three days' worth of stubble he was sporting. Were those Dean's collarbones jutting up underneath his T shirt, or just creases from where the darn thing had been screwed up rather than folded up in the bottom of his drawer for God knows how long?

Or was he just imagining it all? In the space of ten seconds a kaleidoscope of thoughts and potential scenarios flitted through Sam's mind, and absolutely none of them were good.

Eventually Sam cracked. "Okay, he sighed; "sorry, I just thought …"

"Well don't, Dean replied quietly; "I'm fine, really. You're supposed to be researching that poltergeist hunt, aren't you? Concentrate on that, not me." Returning to his oatmeal, he made the effort to manufacture a smile for Sam's benefit. It was crooked and didn't reach his eyes.

Sam nodded, completely unconvinced.

xxxxx

If Sam had his suspicions that something wasn't right about Dean, they were proved spectacularly correct the following morning, when Dean didn't actually appear for breakfast at all.

After half an hour of sitting alone at the huge table, waiting for Dean's larger-than-life presence to emerge triumphantly from the kitchen carrying enough food to feed a siege, Sam made his way along the corridor to Dean's bedroom, to find the door firmly closed; a sure sign that the elder Winchester was still ensconsed in his precious room. He hesitantly tapped on the door.

"Dean, you awake?"

The response was barely audible through the thick, iron-coated door, but Sam just heard a breathy sigh of "yeah."

"You gonna make some breakfast, or shall I do it?" Sam prompted gently.

"Not hungry," Dean replied economically; "make some f'yourself, okay?"

Sam frowned as he listened to Dean's voice; "you alright dude?"

There was a long pause; way too long.

"Peachy," the response eventually came, and Sam's frown deepened.

It could have been the effect of the heavy door between them, or perhaps the lingering effects of sleep if Dean had only just woken up, but Sam could have sworn Dean sounded like he was eating his pillow.

"D'y want coffee?" he asked, trying a different tack to coax Dean out of his room.

"No, m'fine; beat it," came the gruff response. Even through the door, Sam could hear that Dean was sounding progressively more irritable with each exchange.

What the hell was he doing in there? He sounded like he did that time when he put seven oreos in his mouth at once.

Sam took a deep breath and squared his shoulders to fortify himself. The gesture was more for his own benefit given that Dean couldn't see it; "Dean, if you're fine, come out and show me," he announced sternly; "I'm worried about you.".

"Tol' you, 'm'fine," Dean spluttered; "wanna lie-in 'n read my book, g'way."

Taking another deep breath, Sam counted to ten; "right, I hope you're decent," he warned; "because I'm coming in."

"No, Sam; don' …"

Sam knocked once then flung the door open, striding into Dean's room.

He stopped in his tracks at the sight that met him.

xxxxx

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

FACING YOUR DEMONS

Chapter 2

Dean always manages to surprise Sam, and not always in a good way.

Yay me - I managed a really quick update!

xxxxx

Dean sat slumped the side of his bed, cradling a damp facecloth against the side of his unshaven face. Even from the doorway Sam could see his cheek looked painfully swollen.

He assumed from Dean's bloodless complexion and the dark smudges beneath his heavy eyes, not to mention the fact that he was still dressed in the faded black T-shirt and frayed boxers he'd slept in last night, that Dean's night had not been a restful one.

"Dude, your face," he began; "what the hell …?"

Laying the facecloth aside on the nightstand with a resigned sigh, Dean looked up and Sam could see that his watery eyes were glassy, possibly with pain, or more likely, with copious amounts of painkillers. Knowing Dean as he did, it could just as easily have been either.

Dean seemed to have finally realised that this was one battle he couldn't win because he made no attempt to stop Sam from approaching and crouching down before him, giving his bare knee a reassuring pat in the process.

"M'tooth," Dean mumbled, his words thickly slurred through the inflammation; "hur's real bad." He reached up to cradle his cheek with a shaky hand.

Sam could feel the sheer misery that was rolling off the older Winchester in waves and he attempted a sympathetic smile.

Carefully reaching out to touch Dean's swollen face, he pulled back as Dean recoiled violently, and his heart sank as he realised he didn't need to touch; even from the merest brush of fingertips, he had felt the burning heat radiating from the inflamed swelling that marred his brother's face.

"Dean why didn't you say?"

Dean shrugged wearily, "s'been okay wi' painkillers."

Wincing as he felt his legs cramp underneath him, Sam shuffled round on his knees in an attempt to make himself more comfortable; he had a sinking suspicion this exchange wasn't going to be over anytime soon.

"How long?" he asked, pointing to Dean's face as if his brother was in any way unclear as to his meaning.

Dean paused before answering; "'bout a month," he volunteered; "s'got worse this week, an' swelled up real bad las' night."

"A month? You've had toothache for a whole goddamn month?" Sam mentally kicked himself; he knew Dean could be a devious sonofabitch when it came to neglecting himself in favour of others, but how could Sam have gone a whole month without realising something wasn't right? He scraped his hand over his face to mask an exasperated sigh; more to the point, how could Dean, the stupid jerk, have gone a whole month without seeing a dentist or at least asking for help?

Sam pulled in a deep breath to clear his head; "okay dude, I reckon you might have an abscess there," he rocked back on his heels as he began to rise; "I'll call a dentist; get an emergency appointment."

Dean's arm shot out and grabbed his wrist, preventing him from moving away. He shook his head, wide eyes pleading for Sam's co-operation.

Sam paused, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Dean, you've gotta get this dealt with right now."

"Th'painkillers help," Dean croaked; "need t'get some more."

"No Dean, all they do is mask the symptoms," Sam replied firmly, but as gently as he could manage; "they don't help the cause; you need a dentist to deal with this because if it's an infection, it's gonna start spreading."

He hesitated as Dean's grey face turned a faintly bilious green at his words.

"Dean?"

Dean remained silent; looking down into his lap, suddenly unable to face his brother.

"You're not …"

Time ticked by at a glacial pace before Dean gave the faintest of nods.

"Don' like the dentist," he murmured plaintively.

Sam dropped back to his knees and huffed out a shocked breath.

"You?" He stared at his despondent brother; "how can someone who does what you do be scared of the dentist? You're the strongest, most reckless person I know."

He received nothing but a miserable silence in response.

Rising on cramping legs, Sam settled himself on the bed next to Dean, resting his chin on his clasped hands as he tried to think back, reviewing the brothers' life experiences over and over in his head. Eventually he had to concede that he really couldn't recall Dean going to the dentist at any time he could ever remember.

"So …" he began hesitantly, not entirely sure how to broach the subject.

"Never been to the den'ist," Dean interrupted; "Dad wasn' exactly big on oral healthcare, so never had'da go. Never wanted t'go; din't like the idea of it."

Sam watched Dean grimace in pain as the simple act of talking hurt him badly.

"Since then this 'thing', it's like a fear of the unknown, it's jus' sat at the back of my mind, easy to avoid an' growin' and festerin' until what was jus' a stupid li'l chil'hood thing grew into a great big black cloud. I don' think I could go through with it S'mmy; rather be in pain – least I c'n take pills for that."

Sam sat and stared down at his feet in silence for a few moments.

"So …" Sam tried again; "what is it? The drill? The needle? What?"

Dean shook his head and sighed as he struggled to force out any kind of response; "it's, uh …"

Then it hit Sam squarely between the eyes; it was so blindingly obvious that he could have kicked himself. "The control," he stated flatly.

"It's the same reason you hate flying; you're scared of handing over control of a situation to someone else."

xxxxx

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

FACING YOUR DEMONS

Chapter 3

xxxxx

It all made perfect sense, and Sam could have kicked himself for not seeing it sooner.

Dean had been in control almost his entire life; it had fallen on Dean's shoulders to make sure that both of them, but Sam in particular, was fed and clothed and most of all, safe. From the tender age of four, Dean had spent his every waking moment being responsible for the brothers' destiny.

When they hunted, Dean was behind a gun with his own finger on the trigger. When they travelled, Dean was behind the Impala's wheel with his foot on the gas.

Sam realised that if that if you took away that control, you took away what was essentially Dean. Dean needed that control the way other people need oxygen.

Trust wasn't something Dean gave freely; with the life they had led, why should he? Sam could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of people who Dean really trusted. So, for Dean to submit to giving that trust to a stranger, especially when he was in so much pain and so vulnerable, was an ordeal for him that Sam couldn't even begin to imagine.

All he could do was support Dean; give him understanding, not pity.

He patted Dean's clammy shoulder; "we've got to get this dealt with, you know that don't you?"

Dean didn't agree, but then he didn't recoil either, and Sam knew there and then that he had Dean's tacit agreement.

"I'm guessing you've got an infection, and if you don't get it treated, you could get really sick; hell, man you could end up in hospital, and I'm damned if I'll let that happen."

"Big woman," Dean grunted into his chest without meeting his brother's eyes, and Sam grinned broadly.

"I'm gonna get you some pain meds," Sam explained, grunting with effort as he rose to his feet; "they'll help you sleep while I check out our options."

Turning quietly, he left the room, returning only a moment later with a glass of water and three little blue capsules nestling in his palm.

He watched Dean clumsily drain half the glass to chase down the pills, giving a pained grimace as he wiped a collection of stray droplets which trickled down his chin.

Sam took back the glass and placed it on the nightstand.

"Try to get some sleep dude," he coaxed quietly; "I'll work something out so we can get you fixed up." He gestured up and down to the weary, forlorn figure who sat before him, hunched on the bed, miserably nursing his swollen face. "You don't want your memory foam to remember you like this!"

He watched as Dean slumped back onto his bed with a sigh, closing his eyes as he reached clumsily for the comforter, pulling it up over himself.

Sam smiled, and lingered for a moment before stepping out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

xxxxx

Somehow, the combination of medication and the sharing of his problem seemed to have helped Dean, and when Sam quietly tapped on the door to his room and crept inside, Dean was fast asleep, burrowed deep down under his beige comforter, little more than a great, inert snuffling lump topped by a shock of spiky bedhair.

Dean appeared to sense that someone was in the room with him, and he gradually stirred, shrugging off the comforter and blearily blinking up at Sam through the room's bright light. It became patently clear that he regretted waking up when his face instantly crumpled into a pained grimace.

With immense effort, he hauled himself upright into something resembling a sitting position, all the while curling a hand gingerly around his jaw to cradle his swollen face.

"Whadya wan'?" he mumbled thickly through the heavy fog of sleep and analgesics.

"I found a dentist," Sam began cautiously; "over in Jefferson City."

He waited to see if any response, either positive or negative was forthcoming.

It wasn't.

Grasping the initiative, Sam continued, making sure to keep a cheerful, optimistic tone in his voice; "he's very experienced; specialises in treating nervous patients."

He paused briefly to see if there was any spark of understanding or response coming from Dean's direction; he got a dazed blink and guessed that was the best he was going to get.

"And the best thing is, this guy can treat you under sedation so you'll know nothing about it," he continued, wrapping up with what he sincerely hoped was a reassuring smile.

Dean rubbed his eyes and tried to yawn but quickly gave up on the idea, settling instead for a timid stretch. "I, uh, I feel bit better after that sleep," he mumbled, scratching the unkempt thatch that decorated his head; "maybe …"

His voice trailed away as number one bitchface, the deluxe version, sprouted across Sam's face, darkening his expression.

"Dean," he stated levelly, "firstly, you can to lie to every other living soul on the planet, but you can't lie to me."

He watched as Dean visibly shrunk before him.

"Secondly, you still look like a chipmunk chewing a golf ball, so let's cut the wishful thinking and get on the road, huh? We've got almost two hundred miles to cover and I've booked you an appointment for 4 pm this afternoon."

xxxxx

Sam was pleasantly surprised and, at the same time, worried sick by the meek compliance with which Dean allowed himself to be dosed up with more Advil, and herded into the Impala.

By the time she pulled up into the parking lot of the Jefferson Dental Clinic, Dean had long since succumbed to the effects of sleepless nights together with the heavy analgesia assaulting his system and was slumped in the passenger seat, snoring softly.

Sam tried not to notice the thread of drool hanging off Dean's slack chin, gradually forming a broadening damp patch across the collar and chest of his T shirt.

And, Sam reflected, this was before the sedative!

xxxxx

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

FACING YOUR DEMONS

Chapter 4

xxxxx

Sam leaned across the Impala's bench seat and gently squeezed Dean's shoulder, watching him gradually stir into a state resembling consciousness.

Dean's head nodded upward; once, twice … his eyes flickered open on the third nod.

"Where'r…we?" he slurred, speech thickened by the lingering effects of half a pack of Advil and his increasingly inflamed jaw.

"We're here dude," Sam explained quietly; "at the dentist, remember?"

Dean's body stiffened momentarily as he burrowed back against the seat, glaring at Sam with an expression that had 'betrayal' written all over it.

"C'mon dude," Sam coaxed as patiently as he could, well aware that time was ticking down to Dean's appointment; "we talked about this; just think how much better you'll feel when this is all over, huh?"

Dean's right hand moved upward to it's now-customary position, gingerly cradling his swollen cheek.

Holding his breath, Sam waited until Dean managed a tentative nod of agreement, trying to overlook the fact that the expression frozen onto his face told a very different story.

xxxxx

The waiting room of the Jefferson Dental Clinic was cosy and welcoming; in need of a lick or two of paint maybe, but Sam felt at home as soon as he stepped through the door. The walls were plastered with aging posters showing beaming children displaying the kind of toothy sparkle that only gameshow hosts and Jaws could aspire to, all extolling the virtues of brushing, flossing, and visiting your friendly neighborhood dentist regularly.

The room didn't have that funky, chemical smell of a clinical environment either; it smelled of coffee, old magazines and furniture polish. It was the smell of a room that was unpretentious and comfortably lived in; Yep, Sam definitely had a good feeling about this place.

Dean, on the other hand, was giving nothing away as to his opinion of the waiting room. He sat hunched into the chair beside Sam, a picture of fidgeting, restless misery, cradling his sore face and looking nowhere but at his feet.

Not wishing to make Dean feel any more humiliated than he already was by doing anything so girlie as holding his hand, Sam just settled himself down quietly beside his brother; a rock-solid presence against which Dean could lean and, hopefully, take strength.

"This guy sounded really cool," Sam announced suddenly in an attempt to mask the sound of the drill which he'd heard start up in the treatment room opposite them; "he's got years of experience, apparently." Pausing for a moment, he listened until he was satisfied that the drill had stopped; "I think you'll like him. He says he's used to dealing with nervous patients and traumatic situations."

Dean looked up at Sam; "used t'dealin' wi'them – or causin' 'em?" he mumbled thickly. Sam couldn't be entirely sure if Dean was joking so he settled for a wry smile instead.

A heavy silence settled over the brothers until, eventually, it was Dean that spoke up.

"D'y think I'm n'idiot?"

Sam turned to see Dean looking directly at him; even the unfocussed glaze caused by the pain of his condition, the fatigue of his sleepless nights and the heavy medication coursing through his system couldn't hide the intensity with which he was searching Sam's face.

"No, of course I don't," Sam replied fervently; "why the hell would I think a thing like that? We've all got our hang-ups."

Dean turned away and looked back at the floor; "I think I'm 'n'idiot," he mumbled.

Sam shook his head; "well, you shouldn't," he scolded softly. "Is it your fault Dad never took you to the dentist when you were a kid? Never let you have that experience? Fear of the unknown is a powerful thing." Sam hesitated to see if his words were sinking in; "it's like a big black monster - a demon - hiding in the back of your mind, and all the time it's growing and growing, bigger and stronger. Then unless you face that demon, and beat it, it'll possess you; just like the demons we fight."

Dean shrugged non-committally; "shoul'nt be afraid," he grunted; "not when I do wha' I do.".

"At least you're not scared of clowns," Sam replied with a shudder.

Dean looked up at him and managed a brief, lopsided smile; "yeah, guess it coul' always be worse."

Sam grinned at the brief flash of spirit; "jerk," he snorted.

xxxxx

They both glanced up as the door to the treatment room opened and a young man emerged. He looked, Sam was relieved to see, relaxed and content and not even slightly traumatised. Crossing the waiting room to the exit, he gave the brothers the faintest of nods before disappearing out into the street.

"Looks like it's showtime," Sam muttered. Rising up out of his surprisingly comfortable chair, he stood and waited as Dean eventually hauled himself to his feet with the weary resignation of a man about to attend his own execution.

"Hey guys."

They both glanced round at the voice; which sounded amiable enough to raise a smile across Sam's face.

A smile that dropped into a shocked gape as soon as he caught sight of the figure the voice belonged to.

The man who stood before them was stocky and, as Sam had expected, middle aged.

He was almost entirely bald, save for a few stray tufts scattered across his bare scalp like tumbleweed.

But it wasn't his hair, or distinct lack of it, that had captured Sam's attention; it was the long scar that began somewhere south of his crown, bisecting his forehead and disappearing beneath a threadbare eye patch which looked almost as old as the man himself, before ending somewhere behind his left ear.

Sam's heart sank as the man twiched sharply, his head jerking sideways as if it had been yanked on a wire; this wasn't quite what he had in mind when he'd tried to find a safe and reassuring pair of hands to help Dean through this ordeal.

He didn't even have to look beside him to see that every trace of colour in Dean's already-pale face had drained away.

xxxxx

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

FACING YOUR DEMONS

Chapter 5

Everything is not always as it seems ...

xxxxx

Sam wasn't in the habit of staring at peoples' imperfections; he was well aware that it was unforgivably rude, but somehow in this case, he just couldn't help himself.

He guessed that if he was about to unleash Captain Jack Sparrow's uncle onto his traumatised brother, he should at least get a good look at him first just to make sure there was no immediate need for him to reach for the silver bullets.

Grimacing as the dentist twitched again, he gritted his teeth when Dean twitched in response, seemingly developing a nervous tic on the spot.

Awesome, now he had two of them at it.

Closing his eyes, Sam reflected that his really wasn't what he'd envisaged when he'd spent an entire morning trawling the internet to seek out someone dependable and reassuring who could deal with Dean's dental dramas.

He didn't open them again until he heard the dentist's voice break the awkward silence.

"Roger Walker," the man smiled, and pointed amiably to his head; "don't let this concern yo-ou," his words stuttered as he twitched again; "Ninth Marine Corps; took a machete to the noggin back in 'n-nam," he grinned, twitching again; "field surgeon screwed my nut back together used a steel plate and some duct tape or somethin' like that."

"It's a bitch when I X-ray my patients," Walker continued, calmly adjusting his eye patch; "can't be in the room with 'em else my noggin sparks like a freakin' Catherine Wheel!"

Sam blinked silently, trying desperately hard not to notice Dean twitch again. Judging by the colour of Dean's face, he guessed passing out into a dead faint had suddenly become a very real possibility. A brief flash of hope crossed Sam's mind when he thought that if Dean did faceplant across the floor he might knock his bad tooth out, but then reality intervened and he remembered that they were Winchesters and so could never be that lucky. Dean would probably just end up with a sore tooth AND a broken nose.

Plastering a smile across his face, he nodded, trying to respond in a manner that suggested he wasn't a complete moron.

He failed.

"Oh you don't wanna worry about this," Walker smiled again, seemingly well used to being stared at. He pointed to his head as it twitched again; "the old dome might have a m-mind of its own, but trust me, these hands – solid as a rock."

He held out two gnarled hands for the brothers to see and Sam was mildly reassured to see that they didn't twitch along with his head.

Chancing a glance to his side, he tried to gauge the expression frozen onto Dean's grey face.

'Reassured' wasn't one of the words that sprung to his mind.

xxxxx

Walker stepped toward Dean, approaching him as if he were approaching a skittish horse. "I'm guessin' you're my patient," he smiled kindly; "call it a hunch, and the chipmunk cheek's a dead giveaway too."

Dean pulled in a sharp breath and nodded; he opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.

"Y'know, I saw a lot of shit in 'nam," Walker explained calmly; "I was a m-medical orderly - retrained as a dentist when I left the service. Saw guys traumatised, scared of their own freakin' shadow, scared of stuff men ain't s'posed to be scared of. But I'm tellin' you, these guys weren't cowards; no siree – far from it. They were heroes, every single one of them. Heroes who were jus' trying to be too strong for too much of the time."

He paused for a moment, to let his words sink in. "Your brother told me you do a dangerous job with lots of responsibility, and I can see a whole load of what I saw in 'nam in you right now."

"I saw it all the time in the field hospital; when a strong man has to stop being strong an' rely on someone else to b-be strong for him it's freakin' scary man, I get it. I do."

Sam could see what Walker was doing and suddenly he saw the truth. He saw someone Dean could relate to and respect; someone he could look up to; someone who wouldn't patronise him or make him feel stupid; and above all, someone who Dean wouldn't want to disappoint.

Hell, Walker could have been their father.

Sam could see the hero behind the damaged exterior.

"I w-wanna help you buddy," Walker explained quietly, calmly; "let me give you a dose of the good stuff, huh?"

Sam looked sideways at Dean who stood beside him gnawing his lip and who thankfully appeared to have stopped twitching. It seemed like an age before Dean pulled in a deep breath and even longer before he nodded. "Yeah," he replied, clearer and more confidently than he had sounded all day.

"Attaboy," Walker smiled; "d'y want your brother to come in with you?"

Dean squared his shoulders; "no," he shook his head; "let's do this."

Walker nodded with a smile and gestured Dean toward the treatment room.

"After you," he replied, pausing as Dean turned toward the room, casting a hesitant glance toward Sam.

"See you later dude," Sam smiled encouragingly; "I hope everything comes out okay," he added with a wicked grin.

A grin which broadened as Dean flipped him off seconds before disappearing through the treatment room door which closed quietly behind him.

xxxxx

Sam smiled to himself as he sat back into one of the waiting room's comfortably overstuffed easy chairs with a coffee and a candy bar from the vending machine.

He'd set out to find Dean a nice, kind dentist who could hopefully put Dean at ease.

What he'd actually found was a gold-plated (or steel-plated as the case may be) hero; the perfect person to help Dean.

Settling back into the deeply padded seat with a relieved sigh, Sam took a long sip of his coffee and opened up a musty copy of National Geographic.

Job well done, Sam Winchester.

xxxxx

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

FACING YOUR DEMONS

Chapter 6

xxxxx

Having snagged himself another candy bar and an armful of National Geographics, Sam settled himself in to read a particularly engaging article about the life-cycle of the dung beetle. He'd been trying to ignore the irony of a dentist having a candy vending machine in his waiting room at all; but then, this guy was so unorthodox, it was probably his way of making more business for himself. Sam grinned as he sunk his teeth into the creamy, cavity-inducing chocolate; he had to give the guy kudos.

He'd barely got past the first paragraph when the door to the treatment room was flung open and Dean scurried out, drool bib flapping merrily around his neck.

"S'mmy," he slurred; "m' f'lin' better … c'mon, less'go."

The fact that he sounded like he was gargling cement didn't reinforce the conviction behind his plea.

Sam put National Geographic down on the table beside him; the dung beetles would have to wait.

"Dude," he cajoled; "you're not better, you gotta let Doctor Walker do his job; what's wrong?" He looked over Dean's hunched shoulder to see Walker emerging from the treatment room after his errant patient.

"He's a slippery sonofabitch; did his escape act while I was setting up the IV;" Walker smiled calmly at Sam as if having panic-stricken patients making a break for freedom was the most normal thing in the world.

Approaching the brothers, he reached out to slowly and calmly grasp Dean by the elbow.

"But … m'better," Dean turned sharply and began to back away, coming to an abrupt halt against the rock-solid wall of his brother.

"Dean, you're not," Sam corrected, he glanced up at Walker; "is everything alright?"

The dentist nodded. "Yeah, I think I might have been a bit too honest about what I needed to do," he sighed; "I mentioned that I might have to do a couple of …" he silently mouthed the word 'extractions' and shrugged contritely.

"C'mon," he coaxed; "we haven't got the good stuff into you yet." Pausing for a moment, he waited to see if he was making inroads; "trust me buddy, this whole job'll be one long party when we've got you tanked up with that!"

Dean's head swivelled between the two men as he glanced nervously around him like a cornered animal; and Sam knew that the dung beetles would be waiting a while longer.

xxxxx

Standing beside the big black chair which currently contained his brother in the treatment room, Sam trieed to be at once supportive and invisible. As tense as a coiled spring, Dean looked more like someone trapped in a medieval rack than sitting in a big padded chair.

He gave Dean's shoulder a quick squeeze in a subtle show of unity as Walker quietly, and with consummate care inserted a valium drip into a vein on the back of Dean's cold hand which was clenched around the arm of the chair in a vice-like grip.

"Honestly," Walker murmured, turning away from his patient; "this stuff is liquid gold."

Dean didn't look entirely convinced, and looked even less impressed when Walker turned back to him with a plastic face mask attached to a long tube in his hand.

"Now, have a pull on this while we're waiting for the valium to work."

Dean hesitantly reached up to swat it away as Walker placed the mask over his nose and mouth, but Sam quietly moved in to lift his hand away; "it's laughing gas dude, it'll make you feel awesome."

Sam's reassurance was all that was needed for Dean to grudgingly accept the mask.

xxxxx

Both men saw the moment when Dean's eyes began to glaze over. Sam let out his own sigh of relief as he looked over to Walker.

"He won't be any m-more trouble now," Walker muttered amiably; "t-thanks Sam, nothing more you need to do now."

Sam nodded, watching Dean's eyelids drooping lower and lower as he sunk bonelessly into the chair's soft black upholstery. He knew that was his cue to leave, and let Walker get on with his work.

With a quick backwards glance, he quietly stepped out of the treatment room and closed the door behind him.

Dung beetles were beckoning.

xxxxx

Sam sighed and looked at his watch. An hour and a half had passed since he'd left Walker to work on Dean. He'd heard a drill, and occasional voices, an incomprehensible murmuring sound which he assumed was Dean, but nothing more.

He'd eaten three candy bars, drunk enough coffee to keep himself wired for a month and gone through Walker's entire collection of National Geographics. Over the time Dean was under the dentist's care, he'd moved on from dung beetles to the flora of the Siberian tundra, the arts and crafts of the Quechua people of Ecuador and now he was currently absorbed in a fascinating piece about fish populations in the Yangtze river.

He glanced up on hearing the sound of a door opening just in time to see Walker appear from his treatment room, pulling off a pair of latex gloves.

Instantly forgetting all about the Giant Yangtze Sturgeon, Sam leapt to his feet.

"How is he?"

Walker nodded; "he'll be fine," he replied matter-of-factly; "I've removed an infected tooth, and drained a very large abcess …"

Sam's nose wrinkled in disgust and he held up a hand as if to say 'stop right there!'

Walker wiped the back of a hand across the unscarred half of his forehead. "He was in a terrific amount of pain, Sam," he sighed; "of course, it wasn't helped by him cutting his mouth to bits because he'd tried to do my job himself."

Sam's jaw dropped; "he what … ?"

Walker nodded; "you said on the phone that his face swelled up real suddenly?"

Sam nodded mutely

"Yeah, well I'm guessing that was because he'd spent that n-night trying to yank the damn thing out with, hell knows what – a knife, pliers?" Walker hesitated; "it's like a freakin' war zone in there."

"The moron …" Sam let out a breath shaking with a mixture of shock and anger.

"Don't be too harsh on him," walked shrugged; "desperation is a t-terrible thing, and I think he's learned his lesson."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Listen, thanks doc, I really appreciate your help."

Walker shrugged and twitched at the same time; "s'my j-job," he replied modestly.

"So, I can take him home now?"

"Yeah, sure," Walker nodded, "He'll need antibiotics, I'll write out a prescription for him."

Walker turned to walk back toward his treatment room, but momentarily paused. "Oh Sam, there was something else I discovered while I was in there."

Sam froze; "what?"

There was a brief silence as Sam heard an ominous snorting chuckle coming from within the treatment room followed by some incomprehensible babblings which he couldn't quite understand but he would have been prepared to swear were about butterflies.

"Did you know he's extremely sensitive to nitrous oxide?"

xxxxx

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

FACING YOUR DEMONS

Chapter 7

Who said medicine has to be nasty?

xxxxx

_"Did you know he's extremely sensitive to nitrous oxide?"_

"What d'you mean?" Sam felt his heart beginning to race; "is he okay?"

Walker nodded calmly. "Well, see the thing is, nitrous ox-oxide is commonly and legitimately used in medicine all the time, but it's also been used, in the past, as a recreational dr-drug to induce a feeling of – uh – euphoria."

Sam stared at him; "laughing gas?"

Walker nodded again; "yeah, so he's okay. Sorta, very okay."

"He's just very, very happy," he added with an apologetic smile.

Sam meekly followed the dentist into the treatment room, slightly nervous of what he might discover; the intermittent sniggers and incoherent rambling emanating from that direction didn't exactly fill him with reassurance.

Peering through the door, the knot of concern in his chest tightened as he saw Dean, sprawled bonelessly in the big black chair, drool bib hanging crookedly around his neck. He noted that Dean seemed distracted, his vacantly glazed eyes and right index finger slowly following something unseen in haphazard patterns around the room.

A faint glimmer of focus crossed Dean's eyes as he spied Sam standing in the doorway and a crooked, soppy smile split his ludicrously swollen face, revealing a damp wad of bloody gauze stuffed into his cheek.

"Sh'mmy," he slurred; "c'mon shee th'flutterbyes."

Sam turned to Walker; "butterflies?" he mouthed with a frown.

Walker shrugged again. "One of the less common side-effects of nitrous is hallucinations. Apparently your brother's seeing butterflies."

Sam stared at Walker, his eyes asked the question.

"What?" Walker replied; "it could be worse, at least butterflies are nice." he paused in thought for a moment; "guy last week was seeing a giant rat called Neville."

"Butt-tyflies," Dean crooned drunkenly, gradually slipping further down into the padded curve of the chair; "Sh'mmy comesheeth'butty-fies."

Sam cleared his throat and affected his gentlest, most reassuring voice as he approached the chair. "Hey dude," he sing-songed; "how's your mouth?"

Dean sniggered wetly around the gauze wad; "not mofs; flutty-byes." He pointed up toward the ceiling, his unfocussed eyes and finger once again following the path of something that seemed to be moving in an erratic circle above his head

Sam grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose as he crouched closer to Dean.

"Yeah, the butterflies are cool Dean," he muttered patiently, taking care to humour his brother; "how's your tooth?"

Dean turned and gazed up intently at Sam, squinting as he tried to focus on his brother's face. His faintly bruised mouth opened as if he were attempting to speak, but his words, such as they were, were cut off by a ribbon of wet, bloodstained gauze which tumbled from between his parted lips, and unravelled wetly down his chin.

"Sh'thhmmy," he spluttered, as a bead of drool chased the gauze down his chin.

"Yes Dean?" Sam replied, quietly inching closer to the chair.

"Why, Sh'mmy?" Dean continued in his, thus far, unsuccessful quest to focus on Sam's face, drifting cross-eyed in the process; "why?"

"Why what Dean?" Sam asked carefully, "what's wrong?"

"Why," Dean repeated hesitantly; "need't know Sh-ham."

Noting Dean's brow, seemingly furrowed with concern, Sam squeezed Dean's shoulder in a discreet effort to ease his distress. "What d'y need to know bro? c'mon, you can ask me anything, you know that."

Dean licked his lips, grimacing as his tongue tangled in the stray gauze; "why're they called butt'flies?"

"Huh?"

"Why not cheesheflies?" Dean queried absently with a lop-sided shrug; "or toashtyflies?"

Sam wilted with a relief and looked up at Walker.

"How much did you give him, man?"

xxxxx

Dean's eyes had begun to drift away from Sam, drooping almost to closing.

Sam glanced up at Walker for reassurance; reassurance which he rapidly received.

"Of course the valium doesn't help," the smiling man explained as he walked over to the chair and began a gentle, but thorough exercise in replacing the loose gauze; "with the nitrous and the valium in his system, he's as mellow as a weekend at Woodstock, but it should wear off in a few hours."

Sam's eyes bulged; "a few hours?"

Walker nodded. "Other than the butterflies he's fine; I promise you."

Sam pulled in a deep breath and scraped a hand through his hair; "Is he okay to go now?"

"Yeah, sure," the dentist replied; "he m-might need some help getting to your car."

He handed Sam a small brown bottle of tablets. "Here's the antibiotics, and I should really see him again in about a w-week," Walker paused before he gave Sam a knowing smile; "but I'd guess that's not gonna happen, so I'll leave it with you to just call me if he gets any problems. He's gonna be sore for a few days, but that's normal; nothin' to worry about."

Sam nodded smartly and clapped Walker on the shoulder; "thanks doc," he mumbled hesitantly; "I think."

Pondering on how he was going to take Dean out to the Impala, Sam hesitated in thought. Dean was no lightweight, and he was deeply subsided into the padding of the chair. Even stoned out of his mind, would Dean appreciate being picked up and carried out of the building? More to the point, would Sam really want to inflict that indignity on Dean in front of Walker and anybody else who happened to be in the vicinity. It was Sam who had convinced Dean to face his demons, to give up his precious control and trust a stranger, and he'd be damned if he was going to betray that trust.

He decided to go with carrying only as an absolute last resort. Trying to walk Dean carefully and discreetly out of the building was the way to go and that meant that getting Dean vertical was suddenly Sam's immediate priority.

"C'mon dude," he coaxed holding out a hand in Dean's direction; "up you come!"

Dean lay in the chair; that same soppy smile playing over his swollen, drool-glossed lips, and stared silently at an empty space around six inches above the top of Sam's head.

"Red butty-fly," he announced to anyone who may have been interested.

Sam sighed. "Don't make me carry you outta here, dude," he cajoled; "c'mon help me out here."

Dean apparently couldn't rationalise the purpose of the outstretched hand, so Sam guessed he needed to be a little more direct in his approach. Moving in closely, he bent over Dean, and slid both his arms around and under his brother's back to haul him out of the chair and hopefully to his feet.

He congratulated himself briefly as Dean's lax body, seemingly quite secure in the circle of Sam's arms, meekly allowed itself to be pulled upright into something resembling a sitting position on the side of the chair.

"Hey, that's great dude, now lets see if you can sta… WOAH!"

Sam flailed as Dean, apparently feeling the need to reciprocate Sam's 'hug', threw his unco-ordinated arms around his brother's neck in a crooked and asphyxiation-inducing embrace.

"Love you too Sh'mmy," Dean murmured, homing in for a sink-plunger of a kiss which Sam only just managed to duck away from, crushing his vocal chords in Dean's iron grip in the process.

"I've got a two-hundred mile drive with this," Sam squeaked breathlessly to the chortling dentist, gradually turning maroon.

"Trust me, he'll either fall asleep or snap out of it soon," Walker replied, making little effort to conceal his mirth as he watched Sam make a slow cautious way out of the surgery, seemingly wearing, rather than leading the clinging figure of his brother.

"And you mind those butterflies," he added with a grin.

xxxxx

tbc


End file.
